


Opera for Beginners

by JennaCupcakes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 19th Century Netflix & Chill, M/M, Recreating One's Lost Youth and Celebrations of Life, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Wife Guy Francis Crozier Unleashed, semi-public handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: James convinces Francis to attend the opera with him.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 34
Kudos: 85
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	Opera for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank [Kt_fairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy) for the primers on opera, because I know nothing about it, as well as the conversation that sparked this fic idea. This was meant to be funny, but then Francis got all emotional on me.  
>   
> For my Terror Bingo square ‘celebration’.

“I’ll say, I do miss the opera.”

The words fell into Francis’s evening like an unwanted guest. He and James had been sitting quietly after their dinner, Francis with a book he’d been steadily working his way through, fighting the drowsiness that warmth and good food brought with them, and James with a stack of old papers he’d recently received from William—correspondence, old diaries and journals, mostly. James had shown Francis some of his sketches, which were delightful, and there were intermittent snorts of amusement coming from him that would have Francis look up and inquire about them. James would then share an anecdote, often involving his old friend Charlewood or Henry Le Vesconte, that had been brought up by a particular letter or note in a journal. It all had Francis musing on the providence that had brought him this domestic bliss in spite of his many faults and shortcomings, which was why James’s words bothered him so.

“The opera?”

Francis folded his book closed; index finger tucked between the pages. James held a small book in his hand, the spine smooth with use and the pages yellowed with age. He wore a distracted smile on his face, like he was lost in a pleasant memory. It lingered on his face as he looked up at Francis.

“Yes, the opera.”

Francis’s opinion on the opera had always been thus—he had nothing against socialising, per se, and in fact such an outing could be rather pleasant, given the right company. It was a welcome opportunity to catch up with old friends—had been a welcome opportunity to spend time in Sophia’s company—even if the benefits of that were often outweighed by the coincidence of running into people one would rather avoid. If he could wear his uniform, he didn’t have to worry about being underdressed, and he’d found it limited conversation to the naval subjects he was comfortable with. It was only that while going to the opera was a perfectly _pleasant_ activity, it wasn’t something that Francis had _missed_.

“Ah. Well.”

James, who appeared quite unaware of Francis’s train of thought, flipped a page in the journal he was holding and chuckled. He looked a vision, with his hair half grown back, emphasising more than ever the harsh and masculine lines of his face—it put Francis in the mind of a Roman bust come to life. Over the last months, James’s crooked-toothed grin had regained some of the levity Francis had so despised in him upon their first meeting, and that he now treasured all the more.

“Would you care to accompany me?”

When Francis met James’s eyes, there was a spark in them that Francis found entirely unwarranted considering the subject—it was only the opera, after all. But Francis had learned that James was partial to such schemes—he’d gotten the same way about acquiring a new wardrobe some months ago, an outing to which Francis, too, had accompanied him. At the end of James’s glint-eyed glare, Francis was at war with himself: his own contrary nature and tendency towards reclusiveness fought his all-encompassing desire to lay the world at James Fitzjames’s feet and ask him if he would like seconds. Francis, with somewhere to put his affections, was a force unleashed.

“If you would like me to.”

James smiled brightly, and Francis felt so much joy that it hurt.

“Delightful,” James announced, snapping the journal shut.

* * *

“Not the yellow waistcoat, it’ll clash with my outfit!”

Francis paused in front of his wardrobe at the sound of James’s voice floating from the man’s own room, wondering how precisely James had discerned what waistcoat he’d been about to reach for. The answer, he surmised, lay somewhere in the eight hundred miles they’d covered at each other’s side, and the year they’d spent since their return, nursing each other through all manner of bodily and mental indignities. Francis, who had always wanted to swear on _sickness and health_ , had found in James a willing victim, and marriage, Francis thought, was more in the keeping of promises than in the making of them, after all.

“Which one would you have me wear, then?” Francis asked, sparing a consoling touch to the buttercup-yellow of the waistcoat James had forbidden. Perhaps Francis was a tad predictable in what he liked to wear. The yellow waistcoat always put him in the mind of Easter, of rebirth and renewal, and so perhaps he picked it more frequently than other items of clothing he possessed.

“I’ll show you in a moment.”

Leave it to James to come up with a precise vision and battle plan for a night at the opera, Francis mused as he sunk into a chair to wait for James. He found himself suddenly assailed by the image of Lieutenant Fitzjames, given a first taste of command and finding an untapped talent for it. Francis hadn’t given him enough credit for it when he first started hearing about the rising star of the navy. Jealousy certainly had played its part, for nothing worthwhile had ever come easily to Francis. Then again, neither had it to James.

When James joined Francis he was fully dressed, a shine to his hair that had only recently begun to return. Francis of five years ago would have waited to be cast out from the presence of someone so lovely, if only because experience had been an unkind teacher to him—sometimes Francis still found it hard to believe he was wanted, so very aware as he was of all his faults. But the gift of loving James was that they had weathered their bad days together, and had come out of it—not stronger, perhaps, but still mostly whole. That changed how a man might look at another, as well as the company he might keep.

James was wearing a green coat he’d picked up some months ago, a piece that looked lovelier and richer on him than something of the sort would ever look on Francis. Francis could tell that James was pleased with his appearance by the way he placed his hand on his hip as he considered Francis’s wardrobe, flaunting the fine lines of his body in a way that still had Francis swallowing thickly. With eyes that still had the expert precision of the marksman James had been in his younger days, he picked out a maroon waistcoat, showing it off against the forest brightness of his own coat.

“A matching set,” he declared, “We’ll look well together.”

Indeed, when Francis had shrugged it on and considered his own image in the mirror next to James, the sight nearly stoppered up his throat and he found himself blinking—once, twice, for a tear or two stung hotly behind his eyelids. He’d become prone to such surges of sentimentality, overwhelmed with the certainty of being alive at the most inopportune moments. It wasn’t only his own life that he felt for in these moments, but that of every single man they’d managed to drag to safety; the kind of gratitude that found him on his knees most nights now, praying with boyish fervency, thanking the heavens they’d spared them.

Francis took James’s hand; watched them interlink in the mirror.

“Let’s go,” Francis said, “Before I say something terribly sentimental.”

* * *

Francis had let James pick the opera with a wave of his hand—not of disinterest, he’d assured James, merely the knowledge that James was the expert in such matters. In a way, it was nice. Francis found himself understanding the allure of an outing to the opera from the female vantage point, so to speak, where he left the planning firmly to James and would only be required for the pleasure of his company. A rather lovely thought.

It was dark by the time the hansom deposited them on the front steps of the Royal Opera House, though it was a darkness shot through with a multitude of warm lamps lighting the way for the revellers. James jumped from the cab before Francis could even convince his stiff joints to move, and he offered a hand to Francis with a wink that left Francis unsure whether he should blush or tell James that he was old but not decrepit.

James seemed exuberantly happy, fairly bouncing with energy as he went up the steps. Francis eyed the crowd around them with trepidation as he followed, dreading the sight of a familiar face—or worse, an unfamiliar one that professed to know him and would leave him stammering his way through a conversation that would feel more akin to dental surgery. James, who apparently had acquired the ability to read Francis’s thoughts in the North, returned to his side presently and gently bumped into him as they went inside.

“If we run into someone, I can always tell them my story about Ichaboe.” At Francis’s look of consternation, he added. “Birdshit island.”

Francis fought the smile threatening to break forth on his face only because he had a reputation as socially miserable to uphold. The pleased set of James’s mouth as they ascended yet another set of stairs told Francis of his mixed success.

They had a box to themselves, for which Francis was grateful. He sank into his seat, rubbing his legs, which pained him ever since their return, as though his muscles expected every bit of exertion to morph into a full day’s haul. James seated himself next to Francis, and Francis was struck by how well he looked in the golden lights of the theatre—his brown eyes shone warmly, and his skin reflected the light in a manner that made Francis think, quite sentimental again, that James in all his resplendence belonged on the stage, rather than sequestered away in some box.

James draped his hand casually over the armrest of his seat and crossed his legs, looking comfortable and at home in a way that eased Francis’s heart. On impulse, Francis reached out to squeeze James’s hand, and received such a brilliant smile in response that he felt his cheeks redden.

“Thank you for coming with me,” James said, his voice a low and private rumble over the din of the crowd.

“It’s my pleasure and my honour,” Francis said, and now it was James’s turn to blush, even as he smiled wide enough to reveal the tooth-gap he had yet to have filled in.

“I know it’s silly,” he said, “but I frequented the opera quite a lot in my younger days.” He scoffed, then. “Listen to me. _My younger days_. Barely fifteen years ago, and yet it seems to me like it all happened to another man. I wanted to be that young man again, if only for a night.”

Francis pursed his lips, half turned to James. He remembered looking at him thusly over the course of James’s illness, his protestations that Francis’s care was better spent on healthier men.

“You’re still young, James.”

He could see the rebuttal take shape on James’s lips, but he had stood where James stood, now—the sudden shock of age that came with facing death at the end of the world, only no one had told him what he told James now. “Give yourself time. Give yourself the time you’d give me, and don’t chastise yourself for a lack of progress you’d forgive me.”

James frowned, but Francis could recognise that as the petulant from of a James who knew himself beaten in an argument. Francis gently squeezed his hand again, until a tentative smile returned to James’s face at last.

“Very well.”

Francis patted his arm effusively. “Good man.”

* * *

The opera was—well. The curtain rose, and the orchestra played as the diva strutted across the stage as though appraising a crew of sailors lined up for muster instead of an audience, and with a voice that would put a captain to shame. Francis found he was far more enraptured by James, who sat leaning back in his seat, an easy and handsome grace to him as he smiled and clapped and turned to Francis when he wanted to make sure that Francis had noted a particularly clever lyric, a musical feat by one of the singers, or a marvel of the stage design. He accompanied James to a glass of champagne during the intermission, though he himself abstained. It coloured James’s cheeks with a rosy flush that still shone splendidly in the half-dark of their box.

Francis settled back into his seat a little more relaxed. He found that he enjoyed being out with James, even if it still required subterfuge about the precise nature of their relationship—what mattered to him was the doing of things with James. James, who was fairly lounging in his seat now, watching a back and forth on the stage with an amused set to his mouth, his arm casually thrown over Francis’s armrest. Francis, reluctantly, turned his eyes towards the stage so that he would have something of substance to say should James inquire later. His Italian was passable enough to follow the broader strokes of the dialogue, even if the fine wordplays that so amused James likely eluded him.

He’d given Francis a demonstration of his Portuguese recently, spoken with the halting diction of someone slipping into an old garment, not sure it would still fit. It had pleased Francis, to be invited to see in that part of James, to know they both shared the burden of a mother tongue that wasn’t English. It felt like further proof of their compatibility.

Francis was drawn from his contemplation when James squeezed his arm, briefly. He looked over at James, thinking perhaps James had meant to attract his attention to point out another thing on the stage, but James still appeared engrossed in the opera. Francis was about to turn back to the stage himself when he felt James’s hand again, a brief press of his palm, lower—against Francis’s prick.

Francis near doubled over in surprise, choking on the sound he was holding back and settling for a wheeze. James didn’t remove his hand either; just gently flexed his fingers over the flaccid length of it, and Francis felt suddenly very hot under his collar. He looked from James’s hand in his lap to James’s face, the angular lines of it lit by the stagelights. If Francis hadn’t seen James’s hand on his prick— _Christ_ , he could feel himself hardening, and damned James for it even as he wished he would continue—he would have thought nothing amiss.

“James,” he hissed, though he felt more minded to shout, even as he was certain that the eyes of the entire auditorium were already on them. James partially turned his head, one eye still on the stage as though he was barely paying attention to Francis. “Hmm?”

Francis looked pointedly down at his lap. Only the impudent twitch to the corner of James’s mouth gave any indication that the man was aware of what Francis was referring to. His touch remained feather-light—the coquettish teasing of someone who knew exactly how Francis liked to be touched and was minded to use it to his advantage. Francis had to fight the urge to buck up into the familiar grip—ridiculous, at his age, to be so overcome with desire that he’d nearly forget himself and abandon all decency.

As though sensing his thoughts, James gave Francis’s now fairly hard length a deliberate squeeze, then just as quickly took his hand away and steepled them across his chest. At that, Francis groaned—his prick was throbbing in his trousers, a hard and obscene bulge, which James _knew_ because he could _see it_ —

James leaned over, eyes still turned to the stage, to whisper in Francis’s ear. “Something the matter?” To a passing observer—Francis hoped to God there wasn’t any kind of observer around—he probably looked to be doing nothing more than sharing a remark on the diva, who was now warbling out her lament centre stage.

“Have you no shame?” Francis whispered, torn between the fear of discovery and a frustration with what James had done that was quickly morphing into a frustration with the fact that he was no longer doing it.

“Would it surprise you to hear I’ve done worse in an opera house?”

There was a twinkle to his eyes, and Francis thought of Lieutenant Fitzjames again—surely the world had never met a more fearsome and hungrier creature.

He dropped a discrete hand to the front of his trousers to adjust himself, and when he looked back up found himself confronted with James’s raised eyebrows. “Really, Francis. Have you no shame?”

“You’re a bloody tease.”

“Only if you want me to stop.” The thrumming energy of James bouncing up the stairs to the Royal Opera House was back. “No one can see us here.”

He looked carefree, the dictionary definition of happiness, which always found Francis smiling along with him. James’s hand crept back into Francis’s lap. This time, Francis leaned back in his seat and subtly shifted his legs apart. At the first press of James’s hand, he bit the inside of his cheek.

James worked him in a slow, rhythmic press—the broad base of his palm covering what it could of his length, his fingers seeking out the head through the fabric of Francis’s trousers to squeeze at him. Francis’s head tipped back and his vision spotted as the music swelled in his ears. James’s touches seemed elevated by everything around them—the music, the lights, how carefully James moved his hand to make sure he didn’t give himself away. Francis was meeting his touches with miniscule thrusts of his hips now, seeking out the firm pressure of James’s hand.

James leaned over again. Francis felt the rumble of his voice by his ear. “The way you look right now. Christ. I’d like to put a finger in you. Watch you take that and bite your tongue.”

Francis nearly choked on said tongue in an effort to remain quiet as James righted himself. How the world had survived James Fitzjames before illness and near death forced him to slow his pace was beyond Francis.

“James,” he muttered, the syllables barely audible over the music.

James understood him. “Close?”

Francis nodded. He didn’t trust his mouth not to let out a howl were he to open it again.

James drew him out with practised ease. The air on Francis’s prick was a shock, as was the smooth-gloved slide of James’s hand. He didn’t want to look down, afraid to be embarrassed by the sordid sight of it, but when he did, the vision of James’s elegant hand on his stiff prick against the muted backdrop of carpet in the low light and the decadent elegance of James’s touches compounded his arousal. He could feel it all the way down to his toes, wound tight enough, surely, to snap him in two. James’s grip was steady, a firm hand that anchored Francis even as it sought to unspool him.

James’s voice, close by his ear again. “You can suck me later. Would you like that?” he whispered, his breath ghosting over Francis’s ear, mixing with the insistent throb of Francis’s prick and the anticipation closing up his throat. For a moment, he stood poised on the edge of pleasure, feeling nothing but the _stringendo_ of the rhythmic pulse of his blood, and then it fell away and he went pliant in James’s insistent grasp, thrusting his hips into James’s tight fist again, and again, and again. James coaxed every pulse of shuddering pleasure from him, until Francis felt numb all the way to his fingertips.

When he could finally hear the music over the ringing of blood in his ears again, he turned to James. James—satisfied and smiling serenely—looked out at an opera whose plot Francis had entirely lost. Francis wanted to kiss him, but that was one risk he wouldn’t take tonight. He settled for squeezing James’s hand once more, then began putting himself to rights.

* * *

“A lovely production. Haven’t seen this one since Malta,” James said as they exited the theatre, Francis still a little unsteady on his legs. He glared at James without much force as they climbed into the cab that would take them back home.

“For my own sanity, I won’t inquire about other diversions on Malta.”

James smiled—a man pleased with a good day’s work, a boy pleased at having gotten away with something. “I would say that, as demonstrations go, it was rather faithful to the original.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. James’s hand twitched, and he covered it with his other—the urge, Francis knew, to reach out, to take his hand.

“You were, however, my most rewarding audience.”

“You have a way of captivating a man,” Francis said dryly. Then, a thought occurred to him. “When you said you missed the opera—”

James snorted. “Oh, hush, Francis. I meant I miss the opera! Good God.”

“And here I was, thinking I’d finally figured out what it was that so fascinated you about it.”

James dipped his head, a softer set to his mouth. His hair framed his face most enticingly. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

He looked so genuinely concerned in that moment that Francis once again found himself overcome with fondness. “I enjoyed myself tremendously.”

* * *

Their cab rattled on through the night, finally spitting them out on the steps of their home. Francis felt a last bit of tension bleed out of his shoulders as the door closed behind them and they were once again ensconced in the familiar darkness of their lodgings.

“Do you mind if I join you tonight?” James asked at the door to Francis’s bedroom looking—by God, he still looked as nervous as the first night, not sure in what ways Francis might want him.

“I’d rather expected you to, after the liberties you took earlier.” He softened his words with a kiss, pressed to the corner of James’s mouth, where he’d wanted to put his lips all night. James caught his lips for a second kiss, a greeting returned, before absconding to his own room to get changed.

Francis picked up the book he’d left on the nightstand while waiting for James to join him. Eventually, the mattress dipped, and James slipped into bed next to him.

“Thank you for tonight,” James said when he’d thrown the quilt over both of them and arranged it to his satisfaction. His hand found Francis’s under the heavy blanket.

“You know—all my life, I felt like I was looking at the real world from one of those boxes. I was too aware of everything that set me apart—I had to be.”

There was a contemplative edge to James’s voice. He squeezed Francis’s hand, a warm and healthy press of fingers that made Francis glad because he remembered every time James had held his hand with barely any strength left in it. “It’s the greatest gift you’ve given me, to know I’m not alone.”

Francis turned to James, folding his hand between Francis’s own. “As long as you’ll have me, James. And then some more.” He chuckled. “You know too well I’m terrible at letting go.”

James’s eyes were shining brightly as they met Francis’s. “I’ll hold you to that.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _“Fitzjames frequently visited the opera and on one occasion appeared on stage himself in an amateur dramatic performance. He enjoyed opera and recorded his impressions of the different performances of Barbiere di Seviglia (9 March 1833), Rob Roy (12 March 1833), Siege of Corinth (19 March 1833) and so on. Music was not the only attraction of the opera. […] On some days ashore, there is a clearly defined and unexplained ‘X’ which presumably signifies sex.”_  
>   
>  Battersby, W. (2010). James Fitzjames. The Mystery Man of the Franklin Expedition. Dundurn Press.  
>   
> If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving me a comment. I am also on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/veganthranduil) as veganthranduil.


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